Shinsetsu
by Pam t3h Spam
Summary: [Mild InuKik, Kikyō POV] A little blood. A little truth. A little snow. A brief foray into the first snowfall of the winter leads Kikyō into an unexpected, but not altogether unpleasant, situation.


Here is yet another short one-shot fic centering on Kikyō (and possibly my favorite pairing of Kikyō/Inuyasha). I really don't know why I love writing about Kikyō so much...and the fact that so many people hate her makes me even more defensive of her good traits.

Just read. :D

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_**shinsetsu (new snow)**_

_by pam t3h spam_

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I have always loved the snow.

When the first snow of winter falls, not cold enough for piercing blizzards, not warm enough for icy slush, the soft flakes float silently down in magical whorls of pure white. They settle down over the barren, leafless land ever so gently, smoothing white fingers over the bleakness. Spindly, blackened trees and frozen ground are transformed into something impossibly beautiful. The whole land sleeps within the snow's cold embrace, hushed, expectant.

Nothing is more beautiful; nothing can be more perfect.

The first snowfall always calls to me. Before even the first powdery inches have dusted the ground, I am outside and in the midst of it. I walk with no destination in mind, moving simply for the joy of watchng my footsteps disappear behind me and the cold-fingered touch of the wind on my cheek. A sudden shift in the breeze sends a cascade of icy flakes down my back, raising goosebumps on the sensitive skin there, and a small laugh is startled from my lips.

The sound is swiftly carried away, swallowed by whirling white clouds.

There is no one to hear, but still I hesitate. Dare I…? A snowflake lands between my parted lips and melts there, a cold sweetness that tastes of the very essence of winter, and my choice is made for me. I stick my tongue out like a child to catch the icy crystals, and I can't help but laugh: freely, without worry or care, safely tucked away in a cocoon of sweeping snow.

I am the Guardian of the Jewel, the Sacred Miko, She Who is Touched by the Gods…but for now, I can drop all those titles. For this briefest of moments, I can be _me_. Kikyō. A simple girl who lives in a small village by the mountains and loves the snow.

The stony mask I have been wearing for so long, heavy with responsibility, rigid with hundreds of years of tradition, steeped in bitter yōkai blood…it is lifted, vanished, and I feel so light. I have tapped into a spring of boundless joy in my own heart which, once freed, flows out endlessly and uncontrollably. The laughter jerks my whole body, draining me of even the ability to stand. I land on my back in the soft white blanket of snow and listen to the fading echoes of my own voice.

Does that voice really belong to me? That laughter, so gay and carefree? I close my eyes, and the snow seems to buoy me up, and I am floating…

This is my world, my snowy realm; I am alone in it but not the least bit lonely.

A sudden shriek of pain rips through the air, and the joy is suddenly gone from this place. I sit up, instantly alert, shaking off the snow collecting in my clothes and the numbness pervading my limbs. I scan the horizon, but the forest is silent again.

No, not quite…

…There! Very faintly, the pulse of demonic energy and the taffeta rustling of wings beating the air. I whip around barely in time to see, blurred by the heavy snow in the air, the shape of an immense bird rising from the ground. It flies surprisingly quickly for a creature that looks so heavy, rising above the treeline in mere seconds. It heads toward the east, right over my head, and I notice with a sickening jolt its unnaturally sharp beak, the extra set of wings on its back…

As the bird yōkai floats on by, its powerful wings churn the air and create small eddies of misty snow. An acrid scent is blown toward me, one that makes my nose and throat sting. The smell is dark and bitter, the smell of bloodlust.

East. The village.

My heart seems to stop, leaving me empty, cold, frozen to the spot. Kaede went out with the older women today, gathering roots on the warmer side of the hills.

The familiar thumping in my chest starts up again, but now it thuds out an alien beat so rapid that I fear my ribs will crack. My fingers scrabble for nonexistent arrows, move to notch an imaginary bow for one fleeting moment. And then I move, following the rapidly shrinking shape of the yōkai, painfully inadequate sandals floundering in the deep snowdrifts. The snow that I loved so dearly mere seconds ago is now my enemy, slowing my steps, chilling my senses, fighting and raging and billowing up in blinding sheets whichever way I turn.

A sound, half sob, half scream, all despair, is wrenched from my throat. It doesn't travel far before being swallowed by the suffocating whiteness. I feel wretchedly sick and empty, but I keep moving. I run on in the face of hopelessness not because I choose to, but because I _must_.

Because beneath that mask that I wear, the girl that hides there is no more than anyone else. She is just as human, just as weak, just as foolish. She holds onto small things: a little sister, a shabby village, even a rogue hanyō—because without them, she is nothing. Without them, what is left for her?

Me. Kikyō. It's not enough. I'm not enough. The mask, so heavy that I already falter under the weight of its burden, can't be held up by me alone.

And so I run into a snowy world in which each step is another blind leap into the unknown, hoping against hope that the things I hold onto can save me from myself. My breath rattles in painful, choking gasps. Soft white snowflakes drift onto my eyelashes and cling there, blurring my vision so that I don't see the sharp-clawed silhouette hurtling toward me until it's too late.

Fingers frozen by the cold are brought suddenly and painfully back to life as I sprawl, facedown, in the snow The wicked slashes of torn, ragged red flesh on my arms and side are too painful to look at, so I turn my gaze to the blood trickling down my fingers. It drips, hot and wet, until the snow sucks it up thirstily. Bright red rosettes bloom on the white surface.

I can hear the bird yōkai shriek in malicious glee from above. I never would have guessed it clever enough to set such a devious trap. It flies inches from my head, cruelly tearing at my hair, my robes. As it continues to taunt me, I close my eyes to it all.

The snow is still falling. Big, fat snowflakes, deliciously cool and light and beautiful; they drift softly over my legs, my head, my throbbing arm…and as the numbing cold touches me, the pain disappears as if by magic. I no longer feel the wound—as a matter of fact, I no longer feel anything. I am curiously detached from the whole scene.

Faintly, from worlds away, I hear the bird screech. Another surge of yōkai energy joins the first—no doubt summoning more companions to join in the kill.

But none of that concerns me, because the snow still falls. Softly, soothingly, lifting away all my sorrows and pains and earthly troubles. A heavy, contented drowsiness sinks deep into me, and I accepted my impending death; if I could choose it, I would have it no other way than this.

I have always loved the snow. I have always loved the snow.

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I wake up bathed in warmth. My fingers and toes burn cold, then hot, tingling with the pain of renewed life. The sharp sting brings grateful tears to my eyes.

I'm alive.

"Kikyō…are you awake?"

The tentative question comes from above. I crane my stiff neck upwards, and there, two golden orbs hover in the darkness.

"Two moons…" I whisper to myself, feeling a shadow of memory pass through me. "When two moons float in the sky, it means…it means…"

"Kikyō?" Louder this time, and more worried.

I frown. The voice seems to come from the moons. The monks who trained me never explained the significance of having heavenly objects actually speak to you. My curiosity piqued, I lever myself up for a closer look.

My right arm buckles; a searing flash of pain drains the strength away and releases it in one wordless gasp that falls from my still-numb lips. Before my head hits the floor, I am caught up in a blanket of red.

The pain has cleared my head of giddiness, and when I follow the red cloth with my eyes, I can see that my moons are in fact a pair of extraordinary eyes. Perhaps it is simply a trick of the flickering firelight, but the face in which they are set wears an expression that I have never seen before…

Inuyasha turns his head sharply away, and his features are lost in harsh shadow.

I stare wonderingly at the chiseled angles of his jaw, which divulge no information. What an odd expression on his face, and yet one that seems so innately familiar…I dare not voice my guess for fear of being wrong. So long as I do not ask, I can always hope that I was right.

The silence stretches out between us to fill the tiny cave, and drowsiness slips quietly in after it. My head droops, hits soft fabric. Muscles tighten in surprise around my back.

It occurs to me that Inuyasha has not let go yet. It occurs to me that my head is resting against the warmth of his chest. It occurs to me that he hates being touched and that he find my smell intolerable. It occurs to me that I should move, but I don't.

He breaks the silence, but surprisingly, only his mouth and throat move. His arms stay around me, strong and steady and warm.

"Have you lost your touch, Kikyō? That pathetic yōkai almost got you. What do you mean by giving up the Shikon no Tama to such an unworthy opponent?" A very canine growl escapes his lips. "Idiot. And you got me mixed up in your mess too."

His voice is taunting, scornful. But I pay no mind to the bite in his words, because I can feel the truth. Pressed so close against him, I can hear the swift, erratic thumping of his heart. I can feel the slight tremble of those clawed hands. And slowly, through my cold-numbed mind, realization seeps in:

He was scared. He was worried. About…me?

"Inuyasha…you saved me?" Like my instinctive guess from before, this one is a thought better left unvoiced, better left locked into my own heart. I'm a fool for letting it escape my undoubtedly delusional and feverish mind. But it's too late. The question hovers between us.

"Saved you? Keh! I saved…the Shikon no Tama." He shifts slightly, trying to hide his face again. But the firelight has changed, and I can see him clearly. "The jewel's _mine_, Kikyō, so don't you go dying before I can get. Don't you dare die."

Warmth suffuses slowly through my body, a heat far more powerful than that of the flames. There is a trick to speaking with Inuyasha, I see. One must learn to ignore his words, to look directly at the eyes. Because there, in those golden depths, a flicker of humanity, of a different Inuyasha, is visible. And it is to that hidden part of him that I speak now:

"Thank you, Inuyasha."

His ears twitch. His mouth opens to deny everything. And then that expression steals over his face again, and he says nothing. His arms draw me a little closer, and I look up in surprise.

"What?" he snaps. "Do you think it'll do me any good if your weak body dies of a cold? No point in stealing the jewel from a half-dead opponent."

I can't reply; my throat is constricted and burning. It shocks me that I recognize this feeling—I'm crying. The mask is cracking and the tears are slipping through. It's simply too much: the cold, the terror, the almost-death, and most of all, these arms around me. So human, so comforting. I try to conjure up my last memory of being held so tenderly, and what comes up is a drifting, faceless woman with a crooning voice hovering over me. Have I really been alone for this long?

It's been years since I tasted tears, but these are not how I remember them. There is no bitterness, no sadness. Just…fulfillment and release.

Inuyasha glances outside. "It's snowing again. Looks like we won't be able to leave until it stops."

The fire is dying and the cave is dark. I can't see his face, but I know what it looks like: soft, gentle, contented. That hard glare gone, replaced by the gentle golden glow leaving his eyes to suffuse through his whole being. And I know that if I wished to move—which I don't—to look in his eyes, I would see my own face reflected back with his expression.

"I really do love the snow..." I whisper, and close my eyes.

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Eheh...did I sneak up on you with an attack of FLUFF? The ending needs to be tweaked; I don't know if I like it all that much. Much advice is needed.


End file.
